Assignment - Palermo (3 page)

When he turned the catch and looked in at the compact Renault engine, he saw the bomb.

It was a tidy little package in heavy, dark gray metal, a professional rig, competently wired to the ignition. If he had turned the key, the car and he would have gone sky-high.

He put his right hand forward to disconnect the device, then checked himself again, fingers on the yellow wire. He began to sweat but not from the hot sunlight that struck at the back of his neck. Very carefully he withdrew his thumb and forefinger from the yellow wire.

He looked up at the mountainside. A man stood there, watching him overtly now.

Two cars went by in rapid succession, heading for the Italian border. They were followed by a tourist bus for Como and the Villa Carlotta and Bellagio. Their engines echoed hollowly in the tunnel as they rounded the curve that bored into the mountainside.

The birds sang. Music came from the fishing village far below. Everything had acquired a new intensity and meaning for Durell.

When he looked down again at the booby trap on the Caravelle engine, he saw the second bomb, tucked under the generator, with the second set of wires leading from the one he had almost pulled free.

He was expected to find the first bomb. But the wires from the second were black and taped to the coat of road dust and grease along the engine block, almost invisible. If he had disconnected the first, the second packet of plastic explosive would have gone off as he bent directly over it.

A sure thing.

So it had begun
, he thought.

Amos Rand, the man assigned to cooperate with him from the FBI, was waiting for him at the little hotel above Paradiso where they had met that morning. Amos would have to wait, Durell decided. He hoped Amos wouldn’t push the panic button and call the Embassy at Berne, where he was normally stationed on security watch. Because he would be quite late after his interview with Colonel Mignon, Durell decided.

He straightened, closed the engine cover with elaborate care, and looked at the colonel’s villa. He thought he saw one of the peasant servant women move back from a curtain that stirred in one of the tall second-story windows when he turned his head that way. She had been watching, too.

But it didn’t have to mean anything.

The man in the woods above the tunnel was quite another matter.

Durell walked toward the gate of the villa as if he had forgotten something and were returning to Colonel Mignon for it. The oleanders and the clipped shrubs that flanked the road screened him from the watcher in the woods on the hillside. The man moved again, as if to keep him in line of sight, and this puzzled Durell, because a professional would have been as motionless as stone at this moment. He was big, a dark, bulking shadow in the piney darkness, and it was his wrist watch that had caught the sunshine and given him away with its brief flicker of reflected fight.

It was almost two hundred yards to the tunnel mouth and another hundred up the wooded slope to where the watcher stood. Durell moved behind the screen of clipped shrubbery, hugged the high stucco wall of Mignon’s villa, and moved fast, spurred now by a dark flame, of anger.

The big man stood in the woods like a monolith, not moving at present, ignoring the still, sticky heat that was like a fog among the trees. A single shaft of sunlight slanted over his massive, hunched shoulders and struck the back of his thick neck like the flat of an axe. The mosquitoes had found him and stung his face and hands badly; he’d had no breakfast or lunch, and since he liked to cook and eat, his stomach rumbled with a steady discomfort that for him was the worst agony he could endure. He had long and powerful arms, the face of a Neanderthal, and stubby legs as tough as oak. He stood rooted in the soft loam of the woods above the lake, solid and implacable and without thought except for the job he had come to do. The gun he carried was a U.S. Army Colt .45, and he had two extra clips to go with it.

He didn’t like the woods or the country or anything that didn’t have the solid, comforting feel of a city sidewalk under his feet. He had an odd, primitive fear of nature and he would gladly have left his post to return to the comfortable house where the others were waiting.

But they couldn’t wait. And you did what you were told. There was no turning back. They had you in a hammer lock and they’d break your back if you weren’t very, very careful.

They. . . .

Only a few minutes to go. Then he could report back. He moved, looking at his watch. It was past noon. His stomach rumbled emptily. He had the strength of two ordinary men and ate enough for four. Being hungry was awful. He dreaded it almost as much as the countryside made him uneasy. He looked at his watch again. He couldn’t see anything down on the road. To hell with it. It was time to go.

Beyond Mignon’s villa a footpath led down toward the red and yellow roof tiles of the fishing village, making a series of steps down the steep slope to the lake. Along the verge of the road toward the tunnel, a row of clipped evergreens gave Durell an effective shield. He moved quickly, parallel to the highway, reached the cut-stone face of the tunnel mouth and paused. The shoulder of the hill blocked his view of the spot where the man had been standing. He scrambled up, using small shrubs to pull himself above the tunnel and over the road. A few more cars whined by, echoing under him in the heart of the mountainside. He kept climbing, ducked into the shadows of the pines, and approached the spot where the watcher had been.

But the man was gone now.

Durell swore softly and quickened his silent step through the brush. There was a path of sorts here, winding upward through the pine needles. There was not much he could see in the hot shadows of the trees. The footpath cut sharply right and came out on a small level area where he could look back and down to the terrace of Colonel Mignon’s villa. The old man wasn’t on the chaise any more. Nothing stirred down there. A chipmunk made a flash of striped browns almost underfoot. He paused and listened. There were small thudding sounds on the hillside above him. He followed, moving quickly and in silence.

He came to a place where the big man had tripped over a root and fallen. The imprint of a massive hand was clear in the soft earth under the pines. He took off his sunglasses and shoved them with his left hand into his breast pocket and took out his .38 The sounds of the other man came from the left, away from the path, which had become almost invisible in the loam. He had lost his way and was standing still, confused. Durell climbed higher, above him, still not actually having his quarry in sight, feeling more puzzled by what seemed to be an unusual ineptitude on the other’s part. He started down toward him, moving very slowly, watching every footfall.

There was no sunlight here in the deep woods, and the air was still and stifling. At last he saw his man in a small clearing, turning right and left in uncertainty. He was a huge shadow, moving around the clearing like an animal in a cage.

The man turned at the last moment, squinting, and saw Durell coming. Durell made the clearing in a last quick rush and slammed his gun into the other’s big belly.

“Drop it,” he said.

“Hey, now—”

“Quickly!”

“Look, how did you—?”

The man spoke English; he was obviously an American. His voice was an animal grumble of puzzlement. He was grotesque and beetle-browed, the ugliest man Durell had ever seen. He wore a gaudy sport shirt under a rough linen coat. His belly was enormous but it did not yield to the prodding pressure of the gun. It was like probing into rock. From under the heavy brows the man’s small eyes regarded the .38 with disdain.

“Lay off, pail,” he rumbled.

He kept his Colt .45 in big bananalike fingers. Then he looked into Durell’s eyes and dropped it, grinned, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re Durell, hey? The guy they call Cajun?”

“You ought to know. You’ve been watching me long enough.” Durell’s anger was dangerous; he tried to control it. “You gimmicked my car.”

“Not me. It wasn’t me.”

“You were looking straight at it. You saw who did it?” “It was a repair truck. While you were in the pink house. I figured you had engine trouble and sent for them. Two guys in overalls. They wasn’t long.”

Durell checked himself mentally. The man had a bumbling, if pugnacious, air of truth. “You’re Brutelli?”

“Bruno Brutelli, that’s me. We read about you in the paper, and O’Malley said we should come around here and look you up, like he didn’t make contact back in the States. Put away the popgun, pal. I won’t hurt you.” Bruno made a swipe at Durell’s .38, like the casual flick of a bear’s paw, and the gun went spinning away into the pine needles. Durell ignored it. He didn’t want to kill the man. He slammed a fist into the other’s big belly and felt the jolt all the way up into his shoulder. The big man grinned. He reached and caught Durell’s arm and twisted it in a wrestler’s grip, and Durell, for all his strength, was lifted and slammed into the brush. The breath was jolted out of him. Astonished, he scrambled aside, expecting a boot in the ribs. But the huge man just stood there, turning slowly, enjoying himself, grinning.

“O’Malley says you’re tough. Like he swears by you. I ain’t so sure, so now we’ll see.”

Durell tried again. He came up with a rush, slammed a shoulder into the giant’s thighs, staggered him, and felt a hamlike hand slam down on the back of his neck, like a falling utility pole. He went down, but the other was off-balance and slipped on the pine needles. Durell dived for him. A heavy foot came up into his stomach. He dodged, and the big man rolled away, like a primeval animal struggling for safety.

Durell knew every trick of the business, but nothing worked against this man’s enormous strength. The giant almost yanked his left arm from its socket in his rage to prove himself superior. Durell kicked him in the jaw and hurled him back. The other gave a deep, hoarse yell and scrambled about among the slippery pine needles. He had a thick shock of dark red hair. Durell caught him by his thick neck and twisted, while the huge legs kicked and thrashed. A heel caught him in the ribs and broke his grip. Instantly the big man floundered to his feet. Durell hit him with a right, then a left. The other didn’t yield an inch. Durell began to think he might have to kill him after all.

His shoe rolled on something, and he saw that it was a branch as thick as his arm. He picked it up and moved toward the giant Brutelli. Brutelli slashed at it, broke it, and hurled the pieces away. His face was savage now. He came on with lowered head, surging through the piney shadows, his meaning plain.

“Cool it, Cajun,” someone said.

Durell wasn’t sure he heard the words above the long hiss of his own indrawn breath. He kept his eyes warily on the advancing giant.

“Cajun, knock it off. We’ve been looking for you, and you made it plain where we could find you.”

Durell paused. Brutelli had halted, too. He drew a deep breath and picked up his gun and turned about to face O’Malley.

THE FARMHOUSE stood in a small notch among the hills, about ten kilometers from the lake. It was built of stone, with a yellow-tiled roof and outbuildings that consisted of sheds and a small peaked-roof barn. Terraced fields that were silvery green with olive orchards lifted in giant steps up the mountainsides. At the far end of the valley there was a glimpse of Alpine ramparts, still crested with snow, and the train tracks from the Gotthard Tunnel arrowed down the valley beneath the farmhouse.

The fish fins of a yellow Cadillac with German license plates protruded from the leaning sides of one of the farm sheds. The woman who had greeted them had gone to work in one of the orchards.

“It was the best we could find,” O’Malley said. “After we got your message in the newspapers, we figured we might as well come down and scout the territory.”

“Did you use that yellow Caddy?” Durell asked. “Sure. Why not?”

“You have a lot to learn. You’re not dealing with punks. You’re up against the toughest professionals in the world. Kronin’s headquarters is only twenty miles from here. Did you hear what your landlady muttered when we came in?” Durell was angry. “
Les americains affreux
. The frightful Americans. It’s all over the canton by now about you and Bruno and Milan holing up on this farm.”

O’Malley laughed. “We’re not worried.”

“Well, I am.” Durell stared at the tall, straw-haired man for a moment. “Have you got a phone here?” “Look, let’s keep it cool, Sam. Maybe it’s like for old

time’s sake, but we’ve got to clear the slate and get down to business before you call the blues.”

“There’s a bomb in my car," Durell said tightly. “I’ve got the ignition key, but somebody may fool around with it and get hurt.” He thought,
And if Colonel Mignon hears my car hit the sky right after my visit, it won’t encourage him to help.

The three men looked at each other. Bruno shrugged. Joey Milan bit his fingernails. O’Malley laughed again. “A bomb in your heap? It wasn’t us, Sam.”

“Maybe not. Then it was Kronin, and if he knows I’m here, he’s looking for you.”

“No sweat. We can handle it now.”

“I want the telephone,” Durell said.

“We talk business first. The Feds are here, aren’t they? I can guess. Maybe that Amos Rand. That son of a bitch from the Bureau. To him I’m just a crook.” Durell said, “You’re making a mistake, Frank. I don’t like booby traps. I don’t like bystanders getting hurt. And we have no deal yet.”

There was a smell like an animal den in the farm house parlor, with its overstaffed furniture and religious pictures and dark crucifix on the wall, its polished plank floor and carved woodwork. Through a doorway he could see the huge Brutelli in the kitchen, stirring a wooden spoon in an iron pot that boiled on the stove. Two guns in holsters hung from an old-fashioned peg rack in the hall, and a Remington leaned near the door.

Seeing O’Malley was like seeing a ghost out of the dim past, Durell thought, from a time when the world was young and filled with wonder. O’Malley hadn’t changed much. He had the same hollow face, the thick straw hair, the reckless, challenging brown eyes, the rangy nervousness of a wire-taut body. He wore an expensive silk sport shirt, soft slacks, and English loafers. There was no doubt that he was the leader of the other two and that they gave him complete obedience.